I Hate Weddings
by BriannaShenae
Summary: Weddings are beautiful for the bride and groom - but for some guests, they can be nightmares. What happens when negative feelings find a positive - and positively cuddly - outlet? Some drug references.
1. Chapter 1

With a weary chuckle and pleading exhaustion, John escaped the coaxing arms of Mrs Hudson, who was trying to draw him in to their third consecutive dance. The indulgent smile died on John's face as he scanned the reception hall for the fifth time in an hour. Where was his best man? Sherlock had been here one minute, and gone the next – a common enough occurrence in the daily life of John Watson, but unfailingly nerve-wracking every time.

John sighed, then hastily nodded to the new Mrs Watson, who had caught his gaze from across the dance floor with eyebrows raised in question and concern. The euphoria from referring to Mary as Mrs Watson filled John, and he relaxed as he made his way to her. Sherlock would surely be safe for another hour...

* * *

><p>Staring at his shoes through half-lidded eyes, Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt dance through his brain.<p>

_John would be so disappointed._

Lazily, Sherlock dismissed the uneasy feeling – his **best friend** had no right to judge. And anyway, it was impossible to feel truly guilty or contrite whilst his mind and body were awash in the chemical Nirvana he had found. He was finally – blissfully – removed from the loneliness, the discomfort, the bitter irony that as John Watson completed his perfect life, he damaged some of the most important pieces of Sherlock's own.

The heavenly poison surging through Sherlock's veins disconnected him from the pain of being so utterly alone. No John. No Mycroft. Even Molly had her substandard doppelganger fiancé...

_Molly! She cares, she still cares. She still...cares..._

Shaking the synthetic apathy off, if only momentarily, Sherlock hailed a cab.

_Molly still cares._

* * *

><p>"Honestly Tom! 'Meat dagger'?"<p>

"Oh, and I'm to assume you could do any better than me?"

Standing in the hallway, free from the eavesdroppers and gossipers in the reception hall, Molly raised her eyebrows at the possible second meaning behind her fiancé's words. Tom was straying towards a dangerous topic.

"I'm not your bloody Sherlock, Molly"

And there it was. A heated blush flooded the physician's cheeks as her embarrassment cast her eyes to Tom's shoes.

"That's not... he's not..." she stammered, "What's Sherlock got to do with anything?"

Tom sneered.

"Precious _Sherlock_ would never embarrass you like I did!" he said mockingly.

"I thought you idolised Sherlock," Molly exclaimed, "You practically worship him!"

Bristling, Tom snarled, "I did not – and do not – worship anyone! And as for idolising the man, I find it woefully difficult to do so whilst fighting him for my fiancé's affections!"

The couple stared each other down, both silently refusing to be in the wrong, until the covert stares of the newlyweds from the dance floor prompted Molly to step back.

"Perhaps we should just go back to the flat..."

"Of course. This was extremely improper"

Subdued and seething, they made their apologies to the bride and groom, and then wound their way through the guests to the exit. Apparently unable to resist, Tom muttered, "I'm surprised you didn't suggest leaving sooner. He left hours ago"

"And I'm surprised you noticed!" Molly snapped, "I didn't realise you could see Sherlock while staring shamelessly at other women!"

"Well! Maybe if you would-"

* * *

><p>Accusations and arguments followed the couple home, before a ceasefire was agreed to upon reaching the flat. An icy silence instead descended, leaving the unhappy couple to their individual, bitter thoughts. Molly unlocked the door, resignedly allowing a huffy Tom to push his way inside first. Anger, it would seem, temporarily disabled his normal gentlemanly traits.<p>

She stood wearily in the entry. A moment of peace, finally – until an outraged huff and a string of curses came from the lounge. Molly quickly followed, only to encounter Tom staring murderously at the sofa, upon which was curled up, sound asleep, a rather scruffy-looking Sherlock Holmes, still in his tux.

Molly stifled an incredulous giggle as Tom turned his ire on her.

"Why is he in our house?! How did he get in?"

"I gave him a key Tom, and this is my house, not yours"

"Excuse me? I am your future husb-"

Tom's rant was cut off by a frantic Molly's shushes. Sherlock was stirring on the sofa.

"Tom, go into the kitchen, now!

Her fiancé resisted, while Molly's small hands pushed ineffectually against his chest.

"Molly, no!"

"Hush Tom, go! Just go"

"Molly?"

With a final shove, Molly turned to Sherlock, now sitting up and staring at her. Flustered, she smiled quickly and spoke: "Oh hello Sherlock! I'll be just a second, talking to Tom", before disappearing into the kitchen. Sherlock rolled his eyes as he listened to the idiot Tom start in.

"You gave HIM a key! You and I are engaged, and you give the key to our flat to another man?"

Molly – sweet, timid Molly – could apparently hold her own.

"He's MY friend, and it's MY flat Tom! I'll give a key to whomever I please!"

Sherlock grinned lazily as Tom took in an angry breath, and then let it out as a scoff.

"Your 'friend', is he? You're a liar, Molly Hooper, and we both know it. You're so in love with HIM that you even went and got a look-a-like boyfriend when the sociopath wouldn't love you back!"

When Molly gave a horrified gasp, the aforementioned sociopath raised his voice so as to be heard in the kitchen behind him.

"A cheap imitation at best, Tom"

Thunderous footsteps alerted Sherlock to Tom's approach a fraction too late to prevent a blinding blow to the side of the detective's face. Molly allowed a tiny scream to slip out before seizing Tom by the shirt and pulling him away.

"You should leave, Tom," Molly insisted, facing away to inspect the potential damage to Sherlock's cheekbones – she had somewhat of a soft spot for them. As she fussed over him, she noticed the absence of sound or movement.

Turning back to Tom, Molly saw the expression of pure loathing marring his features.

"I," Tom spoke, sputtering with unconcealed rage, "will NOT marry someone who loves someone else. Who puts **anyone** else before her husband"

Straightening, Molly took two confident steps towards her fiancé, carefully removing the ring on her left hand.

"Then I suppose you should find someone else to marry, because I will not marry someone who loves only himself"

Engagement ring resting now in an incredulous Tom's palm, Molly turned away.

"Goodbye, Tom."

* * *

><p>"I am truly sorry you had to do that, Molly"<p>

"It wasn't your fault Sherlock. It was going to happen sooner or later"

"Well then, I'm sorry I catalysed it sooner"

Silence fell between the pair. Molly revelled in the quiet, her newfound peace – sitting next to Sherlock, listening to his steady breathing, and letting Tom disappear. Suddenly, with a tiny sigh, Sherlock lowered his head onto Molly's shoulder and relaxed minutely. Molly's heart started racing, though she tried her very hardest to quell her body's reaction to his touch. Sherlock Holmes, seeking physical contact for comfort? Something was very wrong.

"I just wanted to dance, Molly"

The words were just a whisper, his breath tickling her neck and sending a shiver down Molly's spine. Her analytical mind, however, still managed to piece together the clues, in a display of deduction Sherlock would have been proud of.

_Lethargy. Desire for touch. Relaxed. Apathy... Damnit Sherlock._

"Sherlock Holmes. Are you high?"

Sherlock's silence was telling. Molly's fists clenched, but despite her tension, the unrepentant sod kept his head on her shoulder.

"Please Molly," he murmured, "I'd say I'm sorry, but I needed to"

Her fury rose.

"You needed to?! You need to be a slave to this stuff?" she cried, standing and facing him, "MY Sherlock wouldn't let anything rule him this way!"

Unperturbed, Sherlock looked into her eyes.

"I... This helps me. Makes me forget. Takes the pain away"

Molly's anger quickly faded, but she stubbornly refused to show it. However, she did concede to sitting down beside him again. The huffy facade was shattered when Sherlock, in an uncharacteristic show of possessiveness, wrapped his long arms around Molly's waist, pulled her tight to his chest, and gently rested his chin on top of her head. Molly inadvertently allowed it, shocked as she was by Sherlock's behaviour and more than a little affected by the intimacy of their seating arrangement.

"I'm so terribly lonely Molly," came Sherlock's near-silent whisper, "Everyone has someone, while the great Sherlock Holmes thinks himself above all that tripe. I just... I do need people, however much I wish it weren't so"

Silence reigned for a few moments, as Molly repositioned to look Sherlock in the eye. Not that it helped her concentrate on her words.

"That doesn't excuse the drugs Sherlock. You promised.

"Molly, these words sound like the excuses of an addict, I know. But tonight, I truly needed it. I'm suddenly not Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, I'm just me. I relax, become someone else, with no memories, no worries. It was just this one last time; I needed to not be alone tonight"

"Sherlock, I-"

"Molly, I came here tonight because I thought of you first when I was searching for someone who still cared. Is that not the case?"

Scandalised, Molly cried, "What? No! No, of course I care!"

Sherlock didn't respond, simply staring at Molly, assessing. Then, without a word, he held his hands out – not taking this time, but asking. With a tiny smile at the innocent look on his face, Molly delicately settled back into Sherlock's arms. Hot breath tickled her ear as Sherlock whispered: "Thank you, Molly Hooper" before the merest brush of his kiss touched her hair.

Molly shivered, and then again when Sherlock chuckled, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. His fingers tightened on her waist, and he kissed her head again.

"I heard you and Tom, you know, in the kitchen," said Sherlock.

"Please, don't..."

"I thought you had moved on?" he probed.

Molly sighed.

"Sherlock, I refuse to discuss this while you're high. Leave me one thing"

The infuriating man gave another small laugh, but acquiesced, shifting Molly fully into his lap to accommodate a closer hold. Settling into it and steadfastly ignoring her racing thoughts, Molly decided to just enjoy it. Like Sherlock had said – it was just for tonight.

* * *

><p>Molly stirred to find the world moving around her. Confusion rose in her still-dozing brain, until low words sounded behind her.<p>

"It's okay – I'm just taking you to your room. We both drifted off. A miracle, considering how horrifically uncomfortable that lounge is!"

Dextrously, Sherlock opened the bedroom door while carrying Molly, closed it again, then gently set her down on the bed. Then a metallic rasp reached Molly's ears, and she turned her head to find Sherlock at her back, fingers on the now open zipper of her dress.

"Sherlock! Stop!" she cried, and his head snapped up, lovely face guilty.

"Molly, I – I swear, I meant nothing insidious, I only hoped to make you comfortable! Truly, I mean it. I'm sorry"

"I can do it just fine myself, thank you. Now turn around please"

As she shed her dress and pulled on a nightie, Molly heard Sherlock shuffling in the corner. Finished, she raced for the bed and got under the covers, freezing. Settled in her new nest, Molly turned in time to see Sherlock making for the bed in a similar fashion, wearing trousers and nothing else.

Feigning outrage, a secretly pleased Molly glared at him.

"And what do you think you're doing?" she teased.

"Like I said," Sherlock grinned, "that lounge is honestly dreadful!"

"Tough!" she said snootily, turning her back to him.

A set of ice cold fingers brushed her waist as Sherlock pulled himself closer, causing Molly to wriggle in protest as he whined, "And it's freezing! You couldn't be so cruel as to leave me out there in the cold, could you?"

"This isn't like you Sherlock! Cuddling, teasing – what's happened to you?"

Molly was joking, but then a lurch ripped through her stomach as her own words hit home, and she answered her own question.

"Oh. This is just because of... okay" she sighed sadly.

"Molly, you are a medical professional. You know as well as I that the drugs just mellow me out, make me feel better. That's all."

Her silence betrayed Molly, and Sherlock once again moved her, bringing her to meet his sincere eyes.

"It can only suppress feelings – it can't create them"

Those beautiful eyes flickered down to Molly's lips, but she stopped him before he permanently broke her heart.

"Don't," she breathed, "It will hurt too much when it ends"

The detective sighed, but relinquished his hold. He rolled back to his side of the rather narrow bed, shifting around once or twice to get comfortable.

"Oh go on then," Molly laughed, deliberately lightening the atmosphere, "take them off, I can tell you're dying to!"

Sherlock coughed self-consciously, unbuttoning his trousers and attempting to remove them in the confines of the bed linen. Casting a discreet glance at Molly, whose back was still to him, he darted out of the bed, shucked the clothes, and jumped back under the covers just as quickly. Molly's sleepy voice startled him.

"I know you like tight clothes Sherlock, but I still would have guessed boxers – not briefs"

"Molly!" Sherlock whispered, aghast, "You didn't-?"

Giggling, Molly answered, "No I didn't, but thank you for confirming!"

"Oh!" he huffed, outsmarted for once.

"And," Molly continued, "you can forget about the snuggling. We are keeping this perfectly platonic"

"Yes ma'am," the detective replied cheekily.

Despite her words, Sherlock's arm found its way around Molly's waist within twenty minutes, followed by his hard, warm, half-naked body soon after, pressing against Molly's back in a delightfully intimate way.

_Platonic my arse_.

Molly drifted off, smiling sleepily.

* * *

><p><em>My intention was to leave it there, but I have ideas... please let me know if you feel this is a story that deserves more! xx<em>


	2. Chapter 2

_Yes, I know I'm a terrible person, BUT in my defence, I posted the first chapter just after I graduated high school, and then I moved away to university. And university SUCKS in the free time department. Bless any of you who believed in me and stuck around (aka: followed this story) even though there was absolutely no indication that I wouldn't just leave this story to die haha. Anyway, here it is! _

Molly cracked an eye open, groaning at the harsh beeping made by her alarm clock. As she wriggled herself awake, she sighed at the feeling of Sherlock's hard body, wrapped around her like another blanket. A giggle escaped Molly as she noted that the raucous alarm hadn't elicited so much as a twitch from the detective.

Glancing at the bedside clock and away again, Molly did a double-take as she saw the time.

"Sherlock!" she hissed urgently, attempting to yank Sherlock's all-encompassing arms from around her.

Nothing.

"Please Sherlock!" she groaned, "I need to go to work!"

This time he opened a bleary eye, but as Molly started to congratulate herself, he closed it again and pulled Molly tighter against his chest. His contented hum pushed Molly to desperate measures.

Under the blanket, Molly trailed her fingertips, achingly slowly, along the thigh hitched up on her hips, from knee to ribs.

"Sherlock," she purred, "time to get up."

His eyes flew open, and he rapidly rolled to the other side and then out of the bed, standing on the chilly floor in only his black briefs, breathing rather quickly. After her fit of the giggles subsided, and noticing that Sherlock seemed incapable of speech, Molly did so instead.

"Morning snuggles!" she chirped, further giggles threatening at the indignant look on Sherlock's face. "Sorry about taking such drastic action, but you had me rather tightly cinched in, and you, sir, sleep like the dead, and weigh about the same. And I should know!"

Sherlock's scowl deepened, and he finally broke eye contact as he muttered what sounded a lot like "...drastic action..."

"Oh dear," said Molly, sounding far from contrite, "have I offended you yet again? Let me guess: '_the body is just transport Molly_'; '_the urges of the body never take precedence over the mind_', etc.?"

Brows furrowed, Sherlock stared at Molly for a moment, before dipping his head in a cautious nod. A teasing grin covered Molly's face.

"Well you best get to the bathroom and check that statement in the mirror while I get ready for work. You've made me late - you were quite hard to get off just now"

As Sherlock, still confused, made his way to the ensuite, Molly had to press her face into the pillow to muffle her laughter. Crude humour was second only to morbid humour in her book.

In the bathroom, Sherlock gave himself a once over in the mirror. As his eyes reached his hips, the detective's _transport_ blushed bright red from head to toe.

Molly, fully dressed and ready for work, smiled at Sherlock from behind the counter as he walked into the kitchen.

"Ah, here's the con-sulking detective!" Molly laughed, "I made breakfast, now I have to go"

Sherlock sat in front of his plate, but didn't start eating right away. Molly, making for the door, was interrupted from her goodbyes by Sherlock's deep voice calling her name. Turning, her cheery grin faltered at the serious look on Sherlock's face.

"Molly, can we please talk? I have something important to tell you"

"I need to go to work. I'm already late. I only took one day off for the wedding. I - I didn't think anything too scandalous would happen, but there it is!"

Molly was rambling, as she did when she was nervous, but couldn't reign it in. Sherlock's unwavering stare didn't help, and she turned again and bolted for the door.

"Bye!" she called breathlessly, "Text me if you need me!"

Molly spent the morning in a flurry of anticipation, waiting for Sherlock's text. She knew how much he loathed phone calls, and felt that he might feel more comfortable saying what he needed to say when they weren't face to face. Every time she thought about what Sherlock might want to tell her, Molly's whole body tensed up, and a shrill whimper of a giggle would escape. (It was times like these when Molly felt very grateful indeed that her patients weren't the judging - or living - sort).

By mid-afternoon, laughing was the last thing Molly felt like doing. Sherlock had still not texted her, and she could only assume that he had changed his mind.

Groaning, Molly dropped her head into her hands. Here she had thought she was helping him come clean as comfortably as possible - instead, she gave him time to second-guess himself.

_Stupid!_ Molly berated herself. _He's probably bolted across the Atlantic by now! _

With an hour left in her shift, and all her work completed, Molly gave it away for the day, far too distracted and upset to even contemplate digging out extra paperwork to do.

Muttering a disconsolate explanation to Mike Stamford - "Cheer up Molls, that Tom was a rotten one to give you up!" - Molly made her way home, stopping briefly to pick up some wine and chocolate. She had earnt a night in a big bubble bath! Her mood perked up slightly at the thought, but by the time she made it home, Molly had sunk back into her low.

_Chocolate and wine don't even go together, my whole night is ruined! Stupid, stupid..._

With another heavy, self-pitying sigh, Molly decided to skip the pity party and go straight to bed. Shucking her trousers, and kicking them aside, she was halfway though the bedroom door, and halfway to getting her sweater off too, when a deep voice spoke.

"Hmm. That's a good look for you"

"Sherlock!" Molly shrieked, yanking her sweater back down to cover her stomach, and as much of her legs as she could - which wasn't much.

When she looked up, red in the face, Sherlock was casually reclined on her bed, chuckling.

"I always did like that sweater," he mused, "but it looks even better this way."

Molly's cheeks flushed red again, and she opened her mouth to ask, or maybe yell, just what the hell the arrogant bastard thought he was doing in her bedroom, but he cut her off, expression turning serious.

"You didn't let me talk this morning. It's important."

Molly's earlier anguish returned.

"It can't have been _that_ important," she said sadly, "I told you could text me if you needed me. Obviously you didn't."

Sherlock was shaking his head before she finished speaking.

"Oh Molly, I always need you. But this isn't the sort of thing that should be said by text. I told you: it's important"

Molly's heart rate picked up the pace, and she anxiously caught her breath.

"What's wrong? Are you in trouble? Do I have to kill you again?" Molly questioned, making a joke to try and calm her strained nerves. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his mouth pulled up in a small smile.

"Not quite Molly, but just as life-changing. Why don't you come and sit down?"

Molly, though resenting being instructed to sit on her own bed, did so, and Sherlock immediately turned to capture her hands in his, and look into her eyes.

"Molly," he said, then hesitated. The sincere expression on his face tore at Molly's heart, and her nerves settled a fraction. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock started again.

"Molly, I'm not high now, and I have something I'd very much like to talk to you about. I'm not very good at this sort of thing, so I'd be most grateful if you would hear me out entirely."

Molly nodded silently, heart in her throat.

"As you know Molly, I have great difficulty in expressing my emotions. Up until very recently, I even repressed all feelings - without them, I have no need for narcotics. That's what helped me stay clean when I was - in fact, it's likely the only reason I **was** clean. Sometimes it would all be too much, and I relapsed. But now I have a reason to stay clean, without severing my emotions. It seems that, with you, I start to experience certain... feelings. Ones that I do not have to lock away, that I don't wish to. So, Molly Hooper, although I rarely try to define what I feel, let me try for you. I enjoy your company immensely and I think about you a lot. I sometimes find myself wandering through Bart's, halfway to the pathology lab, or the morgue, before I even realise my destination. And then, of course, I have to invent some ludicrous excuse - despite my being far too distracted to even contemplate an experiment these past few weeks! I cherish every smile you grant me, rare though they are. Of course, I am fairly intolerable, so I don't really blame you there. And every time I upset you, make you cry, frown, or even look down at your feet, I feel an awful surge of rage and internal loathing. The only person who makes me angrier than myself is that wretched Tom. I - Molly you have no concept, not an inkling, of how gloriously happy I was when you chose yourself over Tom. Because by choosing your own happiness over your sense of obligation to that fool, you are - inadvertently, I suppose - choosing me too. I will do anything to make you happy Molly. There is no doubt whatsoever that we will fight, and I'll be a right arse, and I'll do some things that are a bit not good. But I am equally as sure that you'll put up with me, because - and this is the crux of the issue today - because I love you, like no one has ever loved anyone else before. I love you Molly Hooper, and I want to be with you... if you'll have me.

Molly sat, frozen, unable to do any more than stare silently, disbelievingly, at Sherlock. It wasn't until the cooled from his lovely eyes, and a chagrined expression stole over his face, that Molly realised she was crying. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I haven't - have I upset you Molly? I apolo-"

"Did you have to practice that much?" Molly cut in, voice breaking.

Sherlock looked stricken.

"No, I - what? I - I did write it down, and memorise it, but... Molly please, I just wanted to ensure I said it properly, I assure you my love for you is quite real and -"

Molly interrupted again.

"Please Sherlock. Just stop talking, and kiss me!"

A breathtakingly exultant smile lit up his face, and Sherlock leaned forward. Molly eagerly leaned in, closing her eyes.


End file.
